


Tomorrow

by nightsstarr



Series: Demonfire Babies [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Next-Gen, OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightsstarr/pseuds/nightsstarr
Summary: My take on the Demonfire babies. Two of them actually appeared in 'canon' at Earth-22 Bruce's funeral, but it's my headcanon that there's a third kid who didn't attend the funeral because someone had to guard the city. And so, the kids were born.Chapters are not connected by plot but rather by continuity. Chapters are not necessarily in chronological order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only daughter of Batman and NIghtstar is prepping for her first real night on the job in her new persona.

“Oran, stop it!”

The small boy halted mid-throw, a knife balanced in his fingers and elbow reared back, perpendicular to the ground. Solid green eyes widened, startled by the interruption.

“What?” he complained, arm going slack and clapping against the loose fabric of his pants.

“You’re making me nervous,” the teenager decked in Kevlar and Nomex complained, biting her lip.

Her uniform was black with red and orange accents, a cape reaching her waist extending from pads on her shoulders. A belt slung diagonally over her hips was equipped mainly with a holster for solar eskrima sticks, made to channel the red energy she was capable of shooting from her palms.

“How am I making you nervous?” Oran scoffed, throwing the knife fluidly. It struck the target, just shy of a perfect bull’s eye where a knife was already peeking out from the reinforced target.

“I don’t know,” she snapped moodily. “The repetitive banging, it’s annoying me.”

“Is it annoying you or is it making you nervous?” Oran asked, tossing another knife which sunk into the board just to the left of the previous one.

“If you don’t stop, I swear I’ll–”

“Stop bickering like children,” a familiar voice interrupted them, making them both turn.

“Oh, like you’re so grown up,” she muttered, tucking her short, dark hair behind her ear sulkily.

“Remember, Mel, that this is a test run,” the young man said, observing her costume carefully.

“It’s Hellfire,” she corrected impatiently.

“Yes,” her brother said, taking a step toward her and tugging at the hem of her shirt. “You couldn’t have extended the hem?”

“Stop it.” She tutted her disapproval and smacked at his hands. “It’s fine, Bruce.”

He looked at her doubtfully but let it be, switching on the computer and letting harsh light from the several monitors fixed to the wall wash over his face.

Oran abandoned his throwing knives to peer at the monitors. They displayed a digitized map of Gotham, layered to display the underground, the street, and rooftops all at once.

“Where’s Father?” the boy asked as he studied the map.

“On the phone shouting at one of the Enterprises managers, last I heard.” Bruce turned from the monitors toward the lockers to pull on his Nightwing uniform.

Melisand'r’s fourteenth birthday had passed less than a week ago, and as such her father was finally allowing him to accompany the growing network of vigilantes at his aid on a night’s patrol. Her Hellfire uniform had been completed only about a month ago, and despite what her brother thought it had her parents approval, however begrudgingly from her father.

Her silicone-soled boots were silent as she approached the monitors, scanning them. As soon as she activated the equipment in her belt, her own signal light would flash over their location in Bristol. The thought made her heart race, and she clenched her fists to combat it.

A gloved hand slid over shoulder, and she tensed, surprised. “If you are nervous, you can always change your mind.”

“I’m fine, father,” she said, shaking him off. It wasn’t like him to coddle his children and she wished he wouldn’t do it now.

“The uniform is suitable,” he said, lifting her cape and rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re not concerned about her bared midriff?” Bruce asked, snapping his belt around his hips over his uniform. “It’s a defensive drawback.”

“It was never a problem for your mother.” Damian shrugged and pulled a keyboard out from the cluster of monitors, typing on it professionally.

“Father, I want to go out, too!” Oran announced excitedly. “I’ll be your Robin.”

“Not until you turn fourteen, habibi,” he muttered without looking away from the monitors.

“I’m not a baby,” the eleven-year-old sulked, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you were younger than I am now when you started.”

“Not until you’re fourteen,” Damian repeated, his tone more final this time. “I promised your mother.”

Oran whimpered unhappily, but he didn’t complain again.

Finished with the keyboard, Damian pushed it into the slot under the monitors and turned to Melisand'r.

“This will be part of an extensive trial period. Should you feel uncomfortable at any point in the evening, you are to remove yourself from the situation as soon as possible.”

“Got it,” she muttered, heat rising to her face. Both her brothers were watching her and her father was being so gentle. She wasn’t used to it.

“Stay safe, habibati, and you are not to leave my side until morning.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, just messing it up but she waited until he wasn’t looking to fix it.

“Seriously,” Bruce said as he applied solution to his domino to fix it to his face. “You get worried, you come call me.”

“Thanks.” They were being kind, she knew, and it was important that they were, but they were only fueling her desire to prove herself. She wouldn’t need her father’s kindness or her brother’s protectiveness. She was the warrior princess of Tamaran, and she wanted to show what she could do.

“I’m ready,” she said, her voice decisive and powerful. Allowing a red starbolt to curl over her hand, she clenched her fingers into a fist. “Let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oran's first day out as Robin with his father.

Robin spun quickly, loose silt crunching under his silicone-soled feet, and he jabbed his elbow back as forcefully as possible. It connected with the gut of one of the small group of thugs surrounding him and his father, and he lifted his forearm to deliver a cartilage-crunching punch to the nose.

“Ha!” he shouted gleefully, and he jumped into the air and hovered as two thugs ran at him, and his sudden absence caused them to knock into each other.

He looked over his shoulder, slightly annoyed by the decreased field of vision caused by his hood when it was turned up. His father had pinned what appeared to be the leader of the group against the brick wall of the alley, holding him by the scruff of the neck and bending his arm at an almost unnatural angle.

“When is the next firearms shipment coming in?” Batman growled.

“I donno what you talking about, Bats, I swear!” the man pleaded, attempting to shrink back into the wall.

Batman’s frown deepened and Robin subtly averted his eyes, not that doing so stopped him from hearing the pop-crack noise of the man’s elbow being dislocated. “I’ve got all night and you’ve got more than three-hundred fifty joints in your body. I’ll ask again: When is the next firearms shipment coming in?”

“A w-week from T-Tuesday!” he gasped, his voice laced with pain. “Now l-lemme go!”

Grunting, Batman yanked his victim away from the wall. “You’ve been helpful.” Robin squeezed his eyes shut as Batman clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, then jerked his arm. A muffled scream escaped the man’s mouth as his elbow popped into place, and once he was released, he slid onto the floor, clutching his arm. “Don’t ruin it by getting on my bad side.”

Batman reached into his belt and pulled out a grappling hook gun, which prompted Oran to lift into the air and fly to the roof of the nearest building.

“We’re not gonna cuff ‘em?” he asked when his father landed beside him. Glancing over the edge of the roof, he could see some of the cronies start to stir, wary. The leader and the guy whose nose Oran might have broken were still down.

“There’s no need. We were looking for information. While I’m sure the police would be able to find enough illegal substances to incarcerate each of the for some time, from concealed weapons to drugs, it’s sometimes in our best interest to leave lesser criminals on the street for information gathering purposes.”

“Gotcha,” Robin agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “So what’s next? Melting Mr. Freeze? Sending Catwoman to the pound?”

“That was our only errand for the night, actually.” Batman pressed his fingers to the comm in his cowl, likely double-checking the accuracy of that statement.

“Oh,” Robin said, deflating.

His father glanced in his direction, brow furrowed. “That doesn’t mean we’re finished, of course. We’ll simply continue standard patrols. Perhaps meet up with Nightwing and Hellfire.”

Robin nodded quietly, watching the thugs below gather their leader into a standing position, noting the one he’d attacked attempting to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

“You did well,” Batman said, his voice almost lost in the cold wind that blew fiercely over the rooftops. Praise wasn’t given lightly, and Robin lost all interest in watching the band of small-time gangsters.

His face was filled with pleased heat, and he tried to bite back his smile. “I-um, thanks, Dad. Er-Batman, I mean. Thanks, Batman.”

Reaching out awkwardly, Batman’s heavy-gloved hand rested on his son’s above the hood and ruffled his hair affectionately, squinting down at him. “Your mother will be pleased to hear about it.”

Flustered from the praise, Robin nodded, tugging his hood as far forward as possible once his father removed his hand.

Jumping across rooftops was easy for Oran, who was gifted with Tamaranean ability of flight, unlike his siblings. He was glad-apparently it had taken his sister almost a full week to become accustomed to it.

The buildings in the meatpacking district were lower, mostly two- or three-story factories, and it was far easier to see the ground. Oran shared solid green eyes with his sister, and as such, his nightvision was excellent, even without the aid of a mask.

Because of this, it was easy for him to see the ground thirty feet below, and a small cardboard box that shifted in the wind caught his eye. He stopped short, glancing at his father ahead and quietly lowering himself to the ground.

The box had been covered by a ratty blue blanket, which was now blown to the side. He lifted it to reveal three kittens, huddling in the corner, frightened.

“Hey, Batman!” Robin said into his earpiece, excited by his find. “I found something.”

“You what?” was his father’s gruff reply. Squinting, Robin could make out the silhouette of the cape and cowl several yard ahead and three stories up on the roof of one of the factories.

“Yeah, come look!”

“Robin, we don’t have time for-”

“Please, Dad?”

After a moment of silence, Robin winced as the heavy grappling hook sunk into the brick several meters above his head, and his father swung down on the jumpline. “What is it?”

Robin crouched in front of the box and lifted the blanket, revealing the kittens. They were so small that Robin could easily carry them in his arms.

“This is what you stopped for?” Batman demanded, exasperated.

“Well, yeah. They’ll die if we don’t do something.”

Batman muttered in rapid Arabic, touching his cowled forehead briefly. “Robin, this isn’t what we have the time to waste on. There are hundreds of thousands of homeless animals in this city and we simply can’t save all of them.”

Robin stood, clenching his fingers into nervous fists. “But… I found these.”

His father’s masked eyes widened a little, and Robin wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

“Just let me take them to the Batmobile. They’ll be warm for the night, and then tomorrow I can try to get them homes. Please, Dad.”

Batman sighed. “Fine. I’ll meet you on Sixteenth Street in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

Robin watched as his father pulled himself onto the rooftop, then turned to the box again. “I hope you guys like leather upholstery,” he said as he gently lifted the cardboard.

A tiny meow answered and he laughed as he lifted into the air.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're taking prompts for demonfire babies: how about Oran falling asleep in the Batmobile and Damian has to carry him back? Then Mel and Bruce (more of Mel though) never let him live it down.

The Batmobile roared to a stop, causing Bruce to look up from the computer. It was customary to pull vehicles into the hangar specifically for that, but it wasn’t exactly uncommon for his father to simply pull into the main chamber of the Batcave. 

“Well it’s about time,” Melisand’r sighed, shaking her recently-showered hair over her the nape of her neck.

“He and O were on stakeout,” Bruce grunted. “He was bound to be out late.”

Mel gathered red star energy in her fingers and trailed them over her wet hair, an impatient habit for which her mother often scolded her.

The door on the driver side lifted and their father jumped out in a dark blur of fabric of Kevlar. “You’re both back,” Damian remarked, nodding his head at his children. “Excellent.”

“Yeah. Where’s Oran?” Mel asked, tilting her head as she raked her fingers through her hair.

Damian pushed back the cowl, its mouth-like shape open on the back of his neck. “In the car.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows and rested his chin on his knuckles.

“Did his booster seat get stuck?” Mel asked, smirking at her own joke.

“I wouldn’t make fun of your brother,” Damian told her seriously. “May I recall your first attempt at using a goop-batarang?”

Bruce snorted unattractively, and when Mel snapped her gaze in his direction he trained his eyes on the screen in front of him.

Damian lifted the door on the passenger side, disappearing from view briefly before straightening out with a brightly colored mass of fabric in his arms, the dark Robin cape folded over the top.

“X’hal, is that Oran?” Mel crooned, abandoning her hair to stand in front of her father and adjust the cape for a better view of her sleeping brother. “Aw, a full night was too much for him, huh?”

“He is still adjusting to the schedule,” Damian affirmed.

“Bruce,” she called, holding her hand out flat, and her brother rolled his eyes but tossed her the cell phone which she’d left next to the keyboard.

“Melisand’r,” Damian sighed as the shutter sound effect clicked from her phone. He disliked photographic evidence of the vigilantes in their costumes.

“Come on , dad,” she said, a giggle in her voice. “This is the only time he’s cute.” She snapped another picture and added, “Plus, blackmail.”

“You think you can get his gloves off and make it look like he’s sucking his thumb?” Bruce asked, watching with a soft smile.

“That’s enough,” Damian said, exasperated. “Please take your brother to his room.”

“Fine,” Mel agreed, holding out her arms. “Bruce is the one with Tamaranean strength, he should do it,” she complained as his weight settled in her arms.

“Bruce is updating the system,” Damian told her, looking expectantly at his oldest son, who began typing exaggeratedly. “Besides, the weight should hardly prove a strain.”

“I was just joking,” she muttered, gently shifting her brother in her arms.

Damian grunted his acknowledgement. “And I’ll take that,” he said as he lifted her phone from her loose grip.

“Tt. I wasn’t going to take any more pictures.”

Ignoring that, Damian instructed, “Go to bed once you’ve brought him to his room. It’s late.”

Mel looked down at her brother, unimpressed with his remarkable display of heavy sleeping. Having either of her brother’s powers would have made carrying him easier, but she didn’t complain after she started climbing the stairs. He was almost cute, after all.

He really must have been exhausted; he remained asleep even after she plunked him down on the mattress. As gently as possible, she pulled off his boots, unclasped his outer vest, and took off his cape, hoping to make his rest a little more comfortable.

“Good night, little brother,” she murmured, and in an uncharacteristic moment of overwhelming sibling fondness, she pressed her lips against his forehead. “Also, I hope you don’t me showing those photos to Aunt Lian. She won’t buy you anything except themed pajamas for the next five Christmases.” She pulled the chain on his lamp, plunging his room into darkness, and lit a dim starbolt to help her out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> The red starbolts are kind of dumb but I justified it by hypothesizing that a one-quarter Tamaranean might have some differences in powers to full and half blood Tamaraneans. As a favor to my past self I won't change it but I probably wouldn't choose to keep that now.


End file.
